Who Knows How Mother Plays
Perchance a prophet thou —
Who knows? Who dares touch
The depths where Mother hides
Her silent failless bolts!
Perchance the child had glimpse
Of shades, behind the scenes,
With eager eyes and strained,
Quivering forms—ready
To jump in front and be
Events, resistless, strong.
Who knows but Mother, how.
And where, and when, they come?
Perchance the shining sage
Saw more than he could tell;
Who knows, what soul, and when.
The Mother makes Her throne?
What law would freedom bind?
What merit guide Her will,
Whose freak is great’st order,
Whose will resistless law?
To child may glories ope
Which father never dreamt;
May thousandfold in daughter
Her powers Mother store.
To The Fourth of July
Behold, the dark clouds melt away,
That gathered thick at night, and hung
So like a gloomy pall, above the earth!
Before thy magic touch, the world
Awakes. The birds in chorus sing.
The flowers raise their star-like crowns.
Dew-set, and wave thee welcome fair.
The lakes are opening wide in love.
Their hundred thousand lotus-eyes.
To welcome thee, with all their depth.
All hail to thee, thou Lord of Light!
A welcome new to thee, to-day,
Oh Sun! To-day thou sheddest Liberty!
Bethink thee how the world did wait,
And search for thee, through time and clime.
Some gave up home and love of friends.
And went in quest of thee, self-banished.
Through dreary oceans, through primeval forests.
Each step a struggle for their life or death;
Then came the day when work bore fruit,
And worship, love, and sacrifice.
Fulfilled, accepted, and complete.
Then thou, propitious, rose to shed
The light of Freedom on mankind.
Move on. Oh Lord, in thy resistless path!
Till thy high noon o’erspreads the world.
Till every land reflect thy light.
Till men and women, with uplifted head,
Behold their shackles broken, and
Know, in springing joy, their life renewed!
